


The Mind Games Affair

by UnknownAgent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 06:56:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18733927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownAgent/pseuds/UnknownAgent
Summary: Affected by the loss of a great friend





	The Mind Games Affair

He had finished his work for the day, all paperwork filed or submitted. He stretched at his desk and looked at his watch; it was that time again. The young blonde man got up and left his office, stalked the corridors of the large building until he got to the cells in the basement. This was his routine most evenings that he was not on assignment. For the past 6 months he unwaveringly made his way to where his employers kept the undesirables on ice.

Cell 5, that was the number he knew without thinking, the cell he strode purposefully towards. The room was enclosed, but there was a hatch on the door he could open. He did so and peered in. The dark-haired man was sitting, scowling, like he did every visit, never reacting to the opening of the hatch. That had been the game for the past 6 months. The light haired man was about to close up again when the other spoke.

“What?”

The other man was so shocked he let go of the hatch and it made a clanging sound against the metal door.

“What was that for?” asked the prisoner.

The Russian composed himself. “You haven’t spoken to me since you were brought in here.”

“I’ve been waiting for more interaction. I can’t understand why you stare at me like some exhibition. You’re keeping me here, why can’t you let me be?”

“Morbid curiosity, I guess. Do you remember me?”

“Remember you? You mean when you caused my downfall?”

“No, from before then. 3 years ago”

“3 years? Apart from this little farce, I’ve never met you.” The blonde man’s heart sank. There had been the torture a year ago. “But I know who you are, of course. And that’s another thing. Why does a top agent come and check on me? Come to boast? To gloat?” The other man flinched visibly. Top agent. It hadn’t always been and it shouldn’t be now. But it had been nearly 2.5 years since he’d taken the top spot with a heavy heart, moving in to that office he now occupied. “What’s the matter? You look ill. Did I say something wrong?”

“Just personal demons. I feel their little pitchforks.”

The imprisoned man snorted. “As I say, your reputation precedes you. You are considered to be stoic, Slavic trait and all that. You rarely show this kind of vulnerability.”

“You think I’m vulnerable? Then I must pull myself together.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, you don’t look at all well. Compared to you, I’m in the pink of health and I’ve been confined to this cell for I don’t know how many months.”

“It’s been 6,” replied Illya Kuryakin.

“Yes, well, what am I still doing here? You have tried to drag the information out of me and nothing has worked. Isn’t it time you admitted defeat and do away with me? I can’t live out my days like a caged animal,” the other man snarled.

“We are not as mercenary as your organisation.”

Another snort came from inside the cell.“Good evening to you, Mr. Kuryakin.” It was clear the communication was over and Illya shut the hatch. He breathed harshly through his nose as he made his way to the car parked outside the tailor’s shop.

 

The next day he was going through a dossier after a briefing. It was bad timing; he had to go tonight, and he had to go for a week. After yesterday evening’s events he’d been curious as to whether their long-term guest would have ventured any further insight. This was the most talking he’d done since capture. Illya could never shake the sound of the mirthless laughter that had replaced the silence every time they’d attempted an interrogation. Thrush had done their job. This one would indeed never talk. But he was too dangerous to let out of their sight. And it wasn’t policy to destroy captured enemy agents.

He started packing away his things so that he could get to his abode and pack for the mission. Maybe it was a good thing that he was being called away. He hated this THRUSH agent, the one to take away his colleague and friend. 3 years ago the top U.N.C.L.E. agent in America had been captured by their enemies. Illya hadn’t even been present on that mission, another agent had failed Napoleon Solo. And this man, this stony-faced villain took him away from them. From him. Descriptions and photos of the men were given, but he’d simply disappeared along with his captor.

“I’m sorry Mr. Kuryakin. THRUSH have him. They’ve taken Mr. Solo.”

Slowly it dawned on them he wasn’t coming back. Every time there was news of a THRUSH satrapy, Illya himself would be there, of course, but their enemies weren’t going to let this prize slip away again. He and his team had come back defeated time and time again, and Mr. Waverly said they couldn’t risk any more time or personnel. Mr. Solo was as expendable as the rest of them and they hadn’t the first clue if or where he was being held. Their enemies were keeping their cards close to their chests, unless there were no cards to play any longer. But the lack of news was deafening.

Slowly things got back to normal. Illya was promoted and took the vacant office, but he refused to make any changes. At first the absence had been palpable; this beaming, warm man who always had an eye for the ladies, often had to be kept in check, left a gaping void. There had been countless banter between these 2 men, more than colleagues for sure. And the comradery on their countless missions had been so welcoming. He’d been a man to rely on, wholly. There had always been light-hearted bickering, one-upmanship, but always in the name of friendship.

Eventually he wasn’t expecting to walk in to the office and see Solo’s cheeky grin. Eventually he could say the words “my office” without stumbling on the words or gritting his teeth. Eventually he had to admit defeat. He’d never see his friend again, very likely disposed of after getting intel. And it hurt, but he was a professional and carried on with life. It reminded him of the time he had thought his colleague dead, seemingly blown up in front of his eyes. But it was just a THRUSH trick. He’d numbed at the beginning, just like that time, but with no news the absence made it so much worse. In many ways he’d have preferred that he’d have heard something, anything. News of his death would have somehow been more of a comfort than this strange, stark silence.

And then Illya had, for a brief spell, fallen into their hands.

***

He awoke on a hard, uncomfortable bed. Not his apartment, then. Not a hotel room, not even U.N.C.L.E. medical. He groaned inwardly as there was only one option left. Incarceration. Then he recalled the pain as the THRUSH agent had swung the butt of his gun against his skull.

He briefly checked his person and felt no restraints. That was something, at least. So he swung his legs over the side and got up. Sure enough, he was in a cell. One window, set impossibly high in the wall behind him, one extremely solid door. He looked to the corner to his right as a speaker crackled into life.

“Ah, sleeping beauty awakens. Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin.” Illya frowned at the words. It had been evening when he’d been on his mission. “I trust you slept well.”

“As it was an induced sleep, I couldn’t really tell you,” he retorted.

“Ah, I’m sorry about that, Mr. Kuryakin. But that was necessary to stop you getting those microdots back to U.N.C.L.E., now wasn’t it?”

“Oh I see. And you’ve recovered them, have you?”

“Oh, I think you know very well that you didn’t have them on your person. And very soon we will use various methods to get the information from you.”

“Good luck with that, my friend.” Illya sat down and waited. Over the years he’d undergone intense methods to stop him talking under devious tortures. He knew it was vitally important they did not get that out of him. He took the opportunity to meditate and prepare his body for what came next.

 

What came next was completely unexpected and almost broke Illya Kuryakin.

He was marched out of his cell with a gun trained on him the whole way to a darkened room. They strapped him to a reclining chair and started to prepare him with the injections he had been readying himself for. Then the chair started to rotate, quite slowly at first, but then gaining momentum. The lights pulsed and the THRUSH agents bombarded him with questions. But he steeled himself against the nausea the spinning and the drugs were causing him and kept absolutely silent.

One of the men snapped his fingers and the lights went full on bright, almost blinding Illya. At that moment another man walked in, a man that was very familiar to the captive. Even with his discomfort and weird angles he could see and recognise the face. His image would never leave his mind and suddenly he was real, in front of him. Torturing him.

This new man leered at Illya and spoke. “You will tell us what we want to know, Mr. Kuryakin. I will make sure of that.” He made a signal and the lights pulsed again.

Illya couldn’t let his resolve slip even with this massive shock to his system. Instead he decided to pass out.

“No! No! This is no good. I thought U.N.C.L.E. agents were made to withstand much more. I was just getting started. Take him back to his cell.”

They unbuckled the straps and carried the unconscious Kuryakin away.

 

Illya awoke again on the uncomfortable bed, still unfettered. He could not have seen what he thought he’d seen. That man had disappeared, they had failed to find any trace of him, and yet here he was, alive and well. “I will make sure of that.” It was a very uncomfortable thought. If he could take and hide Napoleon then he was a dangerous man.

The speaker crackled once again. It was him.

“Don’t think you’ll get much rest, Mr. Kuryakin. That was a childish trick. The next session is around the corner and you won’t be able to try that again. We have ways of making sure of that. I’ll see you in 10 minutes.” Nice of them to give him a countdown. Now that he was over his shock he knew he could withstand the interrogation conscious.

Pretty much 10 minutes later the door opened and he was taken from his cell to the interrogation room. The man was already in there.

“Ready to start again? Well, it doesn’t really matter because we are.” Illya stood his ground as he was manhandled in to the straps again. This time they turned up the heat, combined with the injections and the spinning. But he stared down his captor as he asked the questions over and over. His head was throbbing, he was sweating profusely from every pore. He felt sick from the spinning and the drugs, and still he said nothing.

“You will talk, Mr. Kuryakin. You will!”

“ _You want to bet?_ ”

“Talk, Mr. Kuryakin!”

“ _Nyet._ ” He was dealt a stinging blow to his cheek.

“You are a stubborn man, but you are just a man. You will be begging to tell us, soon enough. Take him back to his cell.” The man walked out of the room and Illya watched after him. The movements looked familiar, the cold voice joltingly not.

 

After several repeats of the process over a few days, Illya soon saw a pattern to how he was fetched from his cell and waited for the next session. The door was opened and one man went in whilst his friend waited with the gun outside. He let himself be led to the door and let the man with him exit. Just as the other man was about to hold the gun on him, Illya stumbled slightly, seemingly fatigued. It took the armed man by surprise and the Russian took this advantage. He shot out a foot and kicked the gun away, simultaneously dealing a blow to the other guard. Then he punched the now unarmed man in the face and grabbed for the gun. And he was running.

Not so long later an alarm sounded down the corridor but he could see his prize in the shape of an open door at the end of the hall. They hadn’t realised quite how much he’d taken in on these excursions. Now it was a matter of peering into the antechamber. Empty. He dashed in and shut the door, leaning with his back against it. He obviously couldn’t rest on his laurels, so he gathered his strength, preparing for the hardest part of his escape.

Illya left the sanctuary of the room. They’d have caught him on the camera by now he was sure. The alarm klaxon was louder here, enough to throw him slightly off guard as a shot sailed narrowly past his head. He fired one back and his assailant grunted and fell. Just one gun and one round of ammo, he kept a mental check of how many shots he fired off. Thankfully, there were enough bullets and the plucky young man escaped the melee. Just one more obstacle and he could taste the freedom. But this was the trickiest.

“Do not let him get away!” The first voice from the speaker in his cell screamed in anguish. And of course his torturer stood in his way.

“You won’t get through me, Mr. Kuryakin,” he snarled, an ugly look on his face. Illya mentally checked himself and dove at the bigger man. But the THRUSH agent wasn’t going down without a fight. Vicious blows were raining down upon the blonde head, until the slight man brought his knee sharply up and caught the other beneath the chin. It momentarily took him off balance, but it was the advantage the U.N.C.L.E. agent needed. He brought his hand down in a smart chop and the enemy lay prone. Illya threw himself with all his might out and away, bullets missing him.

 

He gave it a couple of hours before he dared make his way back to where he’d hidden the microdots and deftly made his way back to the New York HQ. His report was extensive, every word written with due care and detachment. The face that haunted his dreams described in painful detail. The one that had taken his friend away. Mr. Waverly would question it, but the Russian would just refer to the words in the report, not wishing to discuss it. And later still he would go home and be sick, the nightmare features haunting his dreams.

Of course a team had stormed the satrapy, but it had been cleared out. Operations moved on once again and there was no chance of recovering their lost agent.

***

Slowly news got back to HQ. It was the breakthrough they’d been waiting for. This man had been spotted, and there was no mistake. They’d been searching for him for 3 years with not a single blip on the radar since that fateful day. But he was at large once more and they were out to get him. They could hopefully put together the pieces once they had him, but Illya was shocked at the news. Could this truly be over? But of course, nothing was simple, this was a top THRUSH agent they were dealing with, after all.

There had been the plan, perfectly executed. Now they knew where he was they wasted no time. Their foe fell into the trap alright. And the slight, blonde man had been there, oh yes, he was there. He levelled his gun and pointed it evenly at the dark man’s chest. “You are my enemy,” he thought to himself as he looked into those brown eyes so full of hate. His team had been there as back-up, but he’d been very determined this one would not get away.

He spoke to his chief. “I leave it in your hands, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly had replied. "Interrogate him, if you can. I think THRUSH will have locked this one up tighter than Fort Knox, don’t you? They’ve had a long time to achieve his silence.”

“Sir.”

 

The interrogations had been relentless, painful to watch, but necessary. To no avail, but they’d had to try. Then they tried unlocking his mind. This was even more painful, and just as useless. Every time they’d asked what had happened to Napoleon Solo, he’d fainted. Illya wanted to try, but they were worried about what that might do to him. After a month they had to stop. It would be wrong to damage him permanently, and so he was locked up until the boffins could come up with something new.

2 more months passed. Nothing. Mr. Waverly was getting concerned about his top agent. “I need you, Mr. Kuryakin. I need your head in the game and I need our men working on other projects.”

“You’re giving up on finding a way to unlock him, Sir?”

“Not entirely, but we can’t concentrate all our efforts on this any longer.”

“Maybe it’s time to let me try. I’ve seen him at work, I know his methods, I could try…”

“And that’s precisely why I don’t want you to,” Mr. Waverly cut him off. “I have every faith in you, Mr. Kuryakin, but I can’t risk what this might do to you.”

“To me, Sir? I’m sure I can handle this. I have dealt with worse.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. That’s an end to it.”

“If only we could crack him, but then what? It could be too late.”

“Indeed.”

So Illya threw himself back into his work, but he couldn’t resist the evening visits. He was aware that his chief would know what he’d been doing, but Mr. Waverly kept that to himself. Why did he keep tabs on the man in the cell? Checking he was still there? Hoping he could appeal to him, but not being able to gather the courage to do more than look, because the expression was always the same; a mask of disgust. 3 months of this routine most of the office-based evenings.

 

One week later.

A successful mission, back home safe and sound. Paperwork filed and report submitted. It was time to pay another visit to the basement.

He opened the hatch on cell 5.

“Where have you been?” So, their guest was talkative tonight.

“Oh you know, the usual. Stopping your organisation’s latest ploy.”

“Oh, I’m sure. So, Mr. Kuryakin. Come to stare me down, appeal to my better nature? I miss U.N.C.L.E.’s attempts to get anything out of me. I found it all so amusing. But you all got bored after such a short little time. Tell me; were you there?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because of the way you stare at me night after night. Such naked hatred.” Illya had not realised his usual concealment had slipped, but he was not surprised.

“If you could only remember a year ago. But yes, I watched your suffering, my friend.”

“Suffering? You don’t know the meaning! And I am certainly not your friend. There you go with the wincing again. You’ve got a tell, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“What happened 3 years ago?”

“How would I know? I wasn’t even on U.N.C.L.E.’s radar back then, far as I can tell.”

“THRUSH, your people, took our best man.”

“I thought you were your top agent. The great Mr. Illya Kuryakin.”

“No, as I say there was another, until 3 years ago.” They really had done a fantastic job on this agent.

“He was not only my colleague, he was a friend.”

“Oh, it all makes sense now. You want revenge, and you’re using me to get it.”

“No, not quite.”

“Well, what then? You insist on keeping me locked up. Just what do you think you are gaining?” He could tell their prisoner was getting impatient. He’d been warned against telling him the truth, but the young man had had enough. If the boys in the lab couldn’t crack it he had no choice left. Of course it had been part of the interrogation, but that was under different circumstances, different people. Each attempt wiped fresh from the man’s mind by his conditioning, just like Illya’s incarceration and torture a year before. But maybe, just maybe, now he had a captive audience, could he break through?

“You’re the key.”

“And what might I unlock?”

“You were there 3 years ago, you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I wasn’t even working for THRUSH 3 years ago.”

“May 22nd.”

“I don’t care what the date was, I tell you I wasn’t working for them.” Keep him talking, that was the key. He’d remained tight-lipped all this time. 6 ridiculously long months.

“I lost a friend that day, and you took him away.”

“Look, don’t try that sentimental stuff with me, OK? I don’t care about your friend, I don’t care about you. He’s very likely dead, why keep me here?”

“Do you want to know my friend’s name?”

“I told you I don’t care! And neither should you. You don’t have friends in this game. What do I care for dead agents’ names?”

“His name is Napoleon Solo.” Illya ploughed on regardless. No going back.

“Wait, now you’re being ridiculous!” This reaction was something new, he hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness at the mention of the name. But he also wasn’t under interrogation.

“Napoleon. Solo.”

“Now what are you telling me? That my name is not so unique? That there’s 2 of us with my name?”

“No, Napoleon. Just one.”

“It’s Mr. Solo to you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“It was Napoleon when we were friends. And I want him back. I’m not going to rest until you are restored, Napoleon.”

“Stop it, Mr. Kuryakin. You are being ridiculous. Do you realise you sound like a madman?”

“No, you stop it Napoleon. The power is within you.” Then Illya held up the file photo he’d brought with him. U.N.C.L.E.’s former CEA of HQ, NY. Napoleon Solo grabbed his head, moaning softly. Was it working, or would his mind be wiped again?

“That’s enough, Mr. Kuryakin. I said it was up to you, but you were warned of the possible implications this route might take.” Mr. Waverly had appeared in the corridor. No, it had not just been Illya they’d been protecting. They had been very worried what might happen if a close, impassioned friend asked the questions instead of a detached, impassive agent.

“Sir? I’m sorry, he was talking to me before I left for Athens. I felt he might respond.”

“It wasn’t your risk to take.”There was a crash from the cell as Napoleon collapsed from the pain in his head. “See? There’s no telling what damage you have done. Come to my office.” Mr. Waverly began to walk towards the double doors.

“Yes Sir.” Illya walked past the medics that had been summoned. They’d be reviving Napoleon and soon they’d know if there had been long-lasting effects from this tactic. Unless he was too far gone.

 

Had Thrush slipped 6 months ago? Or was it done on purpose? Napoleon Solo was back on the scene. They’d only had a description, and then the photographic evidence followed. But they hadn’t heard the name until he’d been in their hands. Illya hadn’t even caught it when in his clutches. Napoleon had been able to tell them so sneeringly that was his name. And they could only speculate that this was the one thing they couldn’t shake without compromising the whole conditioning. They’d needed the man whole, amnesia wasn’t going to cut it. His sense of identity was unshakable. And the fact they’d had to wipe his interrogation of an U.N.C.L.E. agent from his mind showed it wasn’t perfect quite yet. Illya knew he’d been a guinea pig.

How many times had they tried to tempt Solo to join their side? And of course he’d refused point blank every time. So they’d resorted to trickery and mind games. Choosing the moment they had perfected the brain-washing technique? And after Napoleon had got the location of the microdots from Illya would they have used it on him too or just held him until it worked without issues?

Had it taken them the whole 3 years to get him in a state to work for them, or had he committed unspeakable deeds for Thrush in that time? They were unlikely to know. Illya didn’t want to. This man was the enemy, this was not his friend. His friend was locked away inside his own mind, somewhere.

 

Almost 3 years after his capture by Thrush, Napoleon Solo was released from his inner prison, and his cell at U.N.C.L.E. He had no recollection of that time absent, but everything about U.N.C.L.E. had come flooding back after that final turn at deprogramming him. Illya’s persistence had broken the hold, the deprogramming had broken the damn.

He underwent severe scrutiny before they could agree he was the U.N.C.L.E. agent he’d always been. No reprimands were brought, how could they be? Nobody had proof of any misdemeanours. And if any had been committed, they were by a different man, a competent, highly trained THRUSH agent. And not a trace of him had been left.


End file.
